iDreamscape
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: When Sam witnesses a brutal murder, she's left with trauma-induced amnesia.  The only hope of restoring her memory is a dangerous experimental procedure that will tap into her subconscious mind while she sleeps.  But the killer's still out there, intent on silencing Sam- and his interference will have consequences  no one ever dreamed of.
1. Prologue: Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**A/N: You asked for it, so here it is. Please note: while this story is rated T for now, it'll include some very dark themes. Reader discretion is advised. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**iCarly.**_** This has been previously established, has it not?**

**PROLOGUE**

_Monday, January 9, 2012_

_1:00 A.M._

Those few brave souls who were still out and about at this ungodly hour couldn't help but wonder at the sight: a small blonde girl, wearing nothing but jeans and a T-shirt that inexplicably read "Bonus Monkey," tromping through Seattle's icy streets, ignoring the near-zero temperatures, her arms folded and a glower on her face as if she wanted to challenge Mother Nature herself to a bare-knuckle brawl.

If those baffled onlookers had had any idea what Sam Puckett's day had been like, they might have been more sympathetic. She was an hour late to school, because her mother, in a drunken fog, had misplaced the car keys the night before. When Sam finally arrived, Miss Briggs had given her an epic tongue-lashing in front of the entire class. This, of course, wasn't unexpected, but it was the way the diatribe ended that truly stung:

"You're just like your mother – you'll never amount to _anything!_"

Sam blew her a raspberry (which elicited a round of applause), then walked out of class, calmly, deliberately. It was only when she was out of sight in a supply closet that she burst into tears.

That afternoon she had simply sat at the kitchen table, staring at the UW-Seattle application form she had yet to complete. The empty boxes mocked her, daring her to fill them up with nonsense. What did it matter? She'd never get in. Not with her record. Why even try? Finally she had scribbled furiously all over the pages with black crayon, then flushed them down the commode.

Carly was out of town, visiting her grandfather. Sam had called Freddie, not knowing exactly what she was going to say to him or what she expected him to say in return, just wanting someone to listen while she poured out her insecurities.

His cell. "Hi, this is Freddie. Leave a message."

His apartment. "You've reached the Benson residence. Please wipe your phone with hydrogen peroxide and then leave a message. Germs _can_ travel over the phone lines, you know!"

Across the city (not even bothering to put on a coat), to the Bushwell, to bang on his door, ignoring Lewbert's howls from below.

Silence.

And so it was that Sam, alone and adrift, was wandering the Seattle slums, silently cursing the world, her friends, her mother, and herself.

She knew that she couldn't go on like this. If she was to have any hope of keeping herself from exploding, she had to find an outlet, some way to release her pent-up rage and frustration.

At the end of a grungy cul-de-sac, she spotted a familiar tarpaper shack, and smiled. Old Ebenezer Dixon. Of course.

Look up "curmudgeon" in the dictionary, and you'd surely find a picture of Ebenezer Dixon's dour face. When, some three months before, Sam had made the mistake of cutting across his "front lawn" (a pathetic patch of weeds, rocks, rusted tools, and an old spare tire), Dixon barreled out of his front door, spewing profanity at her, and fired off into the air a load of rock salt from an ancient shotgun. The whole display had obviously been meant simply to frighten Sam, but instead it had galvanized her. Since that fateful clash, Sam had made Ebenezer Dixon her Number One regular pranking target. Eggings, TPings, flaming dog poo on the doorstep – you name it, she had done it. Dixon knew that she was responsible, but could never prove it; Sam was careful to cover her tracks.

But something was different tonight. Sam felt a spring of pure, poisonous malice welling up within her. She didn't want just to_ annoy_ old man Dixon this time; she wanted to do some real damage. The world kept on telling her that she was good for nothing? So be it. They wanted her to be a two-bit delinquent, and a two-bit delinquent was exactly what they would get. It was a new feeling, one that exhilarated her – and at the same time, far down deep within, utterly terrified her.

Sam picked up a rock, and tossed it up and down experimentally in her hand. Just the right size and weight to shatter a bedroom window. And that would only be for starters. Softly, she sneaked down the street and around to the back of Dixon's shack.

She froze in her tracks. There was a light on in the shack window. Months of stealthy pranking had made her intimately familiar with Dixon's schedule, and the old man was _never_ awake after ten o'clock.

Should she flee? That would be the more prudent course of action, surely. But Sam wasn't in the mood for prudence just now. The rock still clutched in her hand, she tiptoed carefully through the shadows and peered in the window.

/

_6:00 A.M._

Blowing on her hands to warm them, Fran Koslowzski fumbled with her keyring. It wouldn't be long before the first customers descended on her little coffee shop, desperately seeking the jolt that would get them going on this dismal, gray morning, and she had no intention of disappointing them.

From the alley beside the shop came a sharp crash. Fran jumped. Her other hand went for the pepper spray she always carried; in fifteen years of early mornings and late nights she'd never had to use it, but this wasn't Seattle's finest neighborhood, and there is, after all, a first time for everything. Nervously, she peered around the corner.

Fran gasped. A girl lay on the asphalt; she had knocked over a trash can as she fell. Her blonde hair was streaked with dirt, her thin shirt torn; one of her shoes was missing. And on her bare arms…

Blood. Blood everywhere.

Fran ran to her and lifted up her head. She was breathing, thank God, but only barely. The telltale blue of hypothermia had already left its first imprint on her cheeks.

The girl's eyes opened, sluggishly.

"What happened to you, dear?" Fran asked.

A whisper: "He's dead…oh, God, he's dead…please, help me…"

And Sam Puckett fainted.


	2. The Missing Day

**A/N: Hmm. I just realized that the date I should have specified in the first chapter was **_**Tuesday**_** January **_**10**_** at 1:00 A.M. (unless poor Sam has to go to school on Sunday). Forgive me. *hangs head in shame***

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

_7:00 A.M._

There are many flavors of dreams. Some steal upon the mind softly: half-heard voices, half-smelled scents, visions with the colors dulled by shadow. Some are sticky as molasses, confusing the brain, holding it fast in one vividly remembered moment of time. And others – perhaps the worst kind – assail the sleeper like hammer blows.

It was no surprise that Freddie Benson was having such a dream right now, tossing and moaning beneath the heavy covers while, outside, the winter sun made a halfhearted attempt to rise. He had spent last night sitting with his mother in a grungy, nearly empty Greyhound bus station, waiting for his father to arrive. Gerald Benson had given his word on the phone that he would be there; he had things to say, things that Marissa and Freddie had to hear, things that might help to heal the rift between them. So he had promised. And so they had waited for hours on end, watching frost gather on the windows; and Freddie's father never showed. This should have been routine by now for Freddie, and yet, it still stung as much as the first time it had happened, years ago.

It wasn't until they returned home late that night that he realized he had forgotten to take his PearPhone with him to the station. Sam had called, but left no message. Resolving to call her the next morning and check in, he had collapsed into bed without even bothering to take his clothes off.

Now, his sleeping brain was back in that bus station, but the surroundings were subtly transformed. Corners met at strange oblique angles; the fluorescent lights above created shadows that moved independently of the objects that cast them; the bench where Freddie sat was simultaneously drooping like melted plastic and jagged as a knife – an impossibility that slotted perfectly into the mad dream-logic of it all. People flitted in and out of his field of vision like moths around a flame, their faces distorted, dark hollows taking the place of their eyes. The only sound came from the PA system, unnaturally deep and marred by bursts of static, but still recognizable as his father's voice:

"Burn, Freddie. _Burn_."

"No, no," he tried desperately to vocalize, but his sleep-paralyzed throat muscles managed only an incomprehensible guttural cry.

"Burn, you piece of filth."

"No…please…"

_Buzz._

That wasn't static.

_Buzz. Buzzzzzzz…_

His phone.

Only half awake, but immensely glad to have been aroused from the horrible dream, he groped around on his nightstand until his fingers found the smooth metal of the PearPhone. "H'llo? Who izzit?" He slurred.

The response roused him to full consciousness instantly.

"No," he whispered.

/

"Where is she?"

The nurse at the duty station in Seattle Grace's trauma ward was momentarily taken aback by this wild-eyed, panicky young man who had just burst in. "Where is _who_, young man?"

"S-Sam…" He was obviously out of breath. "…Samantha…Puckett. I got a call saying she'd been admitted here."

"Are you family?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean-"

"It shouldn't really be a difficult question, should it?"

Freddie shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to check his fury. When he finally spoke again, it was with an unnaturally deliberate calmness. "I'm a close friend. Sam's mother…isn't very reliable, so I try to watch out for her. The person who called me said that Sam had asked for me specifically. Now may I _please_ see her?"

"…Very well. She's in Bed Three. Dr. Marshak is with her."

He approached the bed. The sight that met him felt like a punch in the gut. Sam – strong, capable, "Nobody bosses Mama around" Sam – lay in a hospital gown much too large for her thin frame. An IV drip silently pumped fluids into her arm while an oxygen pump fed reviving air into her nostrils. What little skin was exposed was a patchwork quilt of bruises and scrapes…and dried blood.

An elderly man with a pug nose, bushy eyebrows, and a general air of gruff competence was busy scribbling notes on a clipboard. "Dr. Marshak?" Freddie asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." He did not look up, but swiftly scanned Freddie from the corner of his eye. "You're Mr. Benson, I take it."

"Yes."

"I'm a bit unclear on your _first_ name, I'm afraid. According to my patient, it's either 'Frednub," 'Fredwad', or 'Fredderino'." He chuckled, a deep, rumbling chuckle originating down in the belly.

In spite of his distress, Freddie managed a little smile. "'Freddie' is fine."

Now at last Marshak looked at him face to face. The old man's eyes were a bright blue, surprising in the midst of such a rough and careworn countenance. There was a note of deep compassion in his steady gaze, and Freddie relaxed. Sam was in good hands. "What happened to her?"

"That's not entirely clear. Miss Puckett was found in an alley about six o'clock, suffering from exposure and a number of minor injuries. It appears that she was involved in a physical altercation."

"You mean someone attacked her?"

"It…would appear so." There was a curious hesitation in Marshak's manner that slightly unnerved Freddie. "There was quite a bit of blood on her, but…"

"But?"

"Well, Miss Puckett is type B-negative, but nearly all of the blood we found was either type A-negative or type O-positive."

"So, it's not hers?"

"No. There were at least two other people involved."

A sudden rush of horror chilled Freddie to the bone. "Doctor, was she…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, but the old physician read his meaning immediately. "No, Mr. Benson. Definitely not. We did a pelvic exam to be certain, and there was no evidence of sexual assault."

"Oh, thank God…"

Suddenly, the small figure in the bed stirred. "Good to see ya, Freddork."

"What's that, Puckett? Did you just say it's _good_ to see me? Oh, the end of days is surely upon us." Even as they both laughed, tears flooded Freddie's eyes. "How are you holding up?"

"Not too bad, considering. At least I've got an excuse to get out of Briggs' class for today."

Freddie raised an eyebrow. "Uh, Sam? There's no homeroom on Tuesdays, remember?"

"But this is Monday."

He was about to make a clever comeback when he realized that there was no hint of joking in her expression. Another chill began to seep into his heart. "No, Sam. This is _Tuesday_ morning. You had Briggs_ yesterday_. You blew her a raspberry and stormed out. It was seriously awesome. You remember that, don't you?"

Her expression was utterly befuddled. "What the hell are you _talking_ about, nub? The last thing that happened to me before I found myself here was hitting the sack on Sunday evening."

The chill reached into his fingertips. He turned, slowly, back to Dr. Marshak. "Doctor? What's going on?"

Rather than respond, Marshak motioned Freddie to walk with him. When they were out of Sam's earshot, he said, "Miss Puckett claims to have no memory of the last thirty-six hours."

"…What do you mean, 'claims'? You think she's faking amnesia? Why would she do that?"

"Because she's got something to hide, maybe?" came a soft voice from behind Freddie.

He spun, to see a lanky black man in wire-rimmed spectacles. "Who the hell are you?"

"Detective Okonedo, Seattle PD, Homicide," the man replied, holding out a badge. "I have some questions for your friend, but she seems to be uncooperative at the moment."

"She's been traumatized!" Freddie yelled. "Leave her alone!"

"Well, I wish that I could, I really do," the man murmured. "But there's the little matter of a dismembered corpse lying on a slab in the morgue right now, which happens to have your friend's fingerprints and hair all over it."

For the second time that morning, Freddie Benson tried to speak, but could not. He collapsed into a chair, knowing that _this_ time, there would be no waking up from the nightmare.


	3. Grappling With Shadows

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

As he stared at the crime scene photos laid out in a fan-shape on the conference table, Freddie Benson felt sure he was about to vomit. It wasn't simply the gruesomeness of what he was seeing, though that was nightmarish enough; rather, it was the sheer incongruousness of the thought that the mutilated pile of flesh captured on celluloid here had once been a person just like Freddie, someone who breathed, and talked, and smiled to feel the wind on his face. There was simply no way that a human life could be snuffed out so completely. No way.

"Feel free to use the wastebasket if you need to," remarked Detective Okonedo tonelessly, having noticed Freddie's green complexion.

He choked down the bile and recovered himself, more to spite the detective than for any other reason. Though he had known Okonedo for only a day, he had already grown to hate the emotionless bastard. "Who is it?" he asked.

"That's an excellent question. Unfortunately, as you can see, the head was missing, which makes identification difficult. The corpse's prints don't match any we have on file, and we have no reports of missing persons that fit a man of this build and age. All the more reason that your friend needs to tell us everything she knows, as soon as possible."

"She doesn't 'know' anything. Can't you see that?"

"We have only her word on that, I'm afraid."

"Look." Freddie leaned over into the detective's face, and stressed every word he spoke. "I'm her friend. I know her better than just about anyone. And she is telling. The. Truth."

Okonedo was unfazed by Freddie's attempt to intimidate him. He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles with his forefinger, never taking his eyes off Freddie. "Unless you can read minds, Mr. Benson, you have no way of knowing that for sure."

Freddie sighed and sank back into his chair. He should never have agreed to come to the police station in the first place - his place was at the hospital, at Sam's bedside. But this, it had become painfully apparent, was the only way he could get Okonedo off Sam's back temporarily. Fortunately, his mother was willing to stay with Sam this evening until Carly and Spencer, who were taking a red-eye flight back to Seattle, could arrive. As so often, they were the only ones Sam could rely on; Melanie was trapped at her boarding school by a snowstorm and wouldn't be able to come for days, and Pam…only God and Jack Daniels knew where Pam was right now.

"Look," he said. "Let me talk to Sam. Maybe I can help jog her memory. Just…give me some time, okay? It's only going to make her get worse if you're pestering her 24/7."

Okonedo thought for a moment, his fingertips pressed together. "Very well, Mr. Benson. We'll try it your way…for now."

/

Marissa Benson had long ago decided that she would never understand what her son saw in Sam. When Freddie called her and begged her to come and sit at Sam's bedside while he went down to the police station, she had agreed purely out of a sense of obligation to him, grumbling under her breath that the "little blond rabble-rouser" had gotten her beloved Fredward into a mess once again. But now, she found her heart softening, bit by bit. Perhaps it was because nursing always brought out her more compassionate side – but no, there was something more. The Sam Puckett who now lay curled up under the sheets, sound asleep for the first time since she had been brought to the hospital, seemed a very different creature from the boisterous delinquent Marissa knew all too well. With her slow, even breathing and messy golden locks falling down over her forehead, Sam looked fragile, vulnerable, even – did Marissa dare say it? – sweet.

She smiled wryly and shook her head. _Oh, what a silly goose I am. In a couple of days she'll be up and about, and we'll be shouting and sneering at one another like we always do._

Marissa took up her needlework and leaned back in her chair. She was currently working on a new hypoallergenic quilt for Freddie, and resolved to knit through the night. But the steady rhythm of her own fingers as they plied the needles, the low light in the room, and the near-silence of the hospital, soon conspired to lull her into a gentle doze…

"I don't like to be interrupted," Sam said.

Marissa's eyes opened. The wall clock read 10:30 P.M. Perplexed, and a little snappish at having been woken so suddenly, she said, "How exactly did I interrupt you?"

"This is an art form, you know. Would you interrupt Michelangelo when he was just about to finish carving his _David_?" Sam's voice, Marissa noticed, was odd – lower than usual, huskier, more raspy.

"What? Sam, dear, you're not making any sense…"

It took Marissa a moment to realize, to her immense surprise, that Sam Puckett was not talking to her at all. There was no mistaking it: the teenager's eyelids flickered up and down, swiftly, erratically. REM sleep – Rapid-Eye Movement. The best actor in the world couldn't have feigned it.

Sam was talking in her dreams.

She spoke again. "I'm not saying I mind an audience, ladybug. But you could at least have the good grace to let me finish up first. That's all."

Marissa reached out to touch Sam's shoulder and awaken her, but thought better of it. In her delicate condition, rousing her suddenly might do more harm than good.

"You'll be next, of course. Hope you don't mind…Hmm? Well, that's very ungrateful of you. Yes indeed, little ladybug, _very_ ungrateful. Turning down the chance to work with an artistic genius, I mean." There was an undercurrent of menace in the voice now that made Marissa squirm uncomfortably in her seat.

"Oh, your lovely face. I can shape it so nicely, if you'll just stay still. Shave off a little here, dig a few furrows there – oh, going to _run_, are you? How far do you think those short legs of yours will get you?"

The older woman couldn't bear it any longer. "Sam," she said softly into the blond girl's ear, shaking her gently. "Sam, you're having a nightmare. You need to wake up."

If Sam was aware of Marissa's presence at all, she gave no sign of it. "There's nowhere you can go. Don't you see that? …Listen to me. There's _nowhere you can go_." The alien voice coming from her mouth suddenly lost its self-possession, grew vicious. "Stop running! Stop running, you stupid little _bitch!_ I'll tear your fucking_ throat_ out!"

Marissa, alarmed, was about to shake Sam again, harder this time, when she was forestalled by the teenager's hands around her throat. Sam squeezed with a ferocious strength, throttling her. She fought desperately to wrench the murderous fingers off her neck, tried to cry out: "Sam! Stop it!", but managed only an incoherent gargle.

And all the time, Sam's eyelids continued to flicker. She slept still.

Marissa's vision was swimming now. She clawed at Sam's face, knowing she had only a few seconds left before she lost consciousness from oxygen deprivation.

"Mom!" came a cry from behind her. Freddie burst into the room and tackled Sam, loosening her grip on his mother and allowing her a gulp of precious air. A few moments later, a burly orderly and Dr. Marshak entered and joined the fray. But even with the combined efforts of the three of them, it was several seconds before they were able to force Sam back into bed.

Abruptly, she opened her eyes, and yelled in her normal voice: "Benson! What the hell are you doing?"

"Stopping you from killing my mother!" he cried. "Have you lost your _mind?_"

"Freddie, calm down," wheezed Mrs. Benson. "It's not Sam's fault. She was sleepwalking."

"Are you kidding me?" He looked from his mother to Sam, whose wide eyes and panicked expression told him that she truly had no idea what she had just done.

"…Oh, God. Sam," he whispered. "What's _happened_ to you?"

"I don't know! I don't know what's going on! Why am I in the hospital?"

Everyone in the room stared at her. "…You were attacked, Sam," Freddie said slowly. "Early Tuesday morning. Don't you remember?"

"Tuesday morning? The last thing that happened to me was hitting the sack on Sunday!" She looked at the IV drip in her arm and sighed. "Well, whatever's going on, at least it's an excuse to miss Briggs' class today. Am I right?"

She grinned at Freddie, but her smile faded instantly when she saw the utter horror in his face.

"What? What is it? ...Freddie?"

He did not - could not - answer.


	4. Desperation Gambit

**Sorry for the delay in updating.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

_Saturday, January 28, 2012_

_5:45 P.M._

This, everyone felt, was surely Hell.

At first, Freddie had hoped – prayed – that Sam's attack on his mother and its aftermath would turn out to be a horrific fluke, a product of her so recent physical and mental trauma. But the next several days proved that this was not the case.

Life became an endless loop, a Möbius strip. Each night, Sam acted out the same bizarre dream – she had to be placed in restraints to keep from leaping out of bed. When it was through, she awoke, with her memory of all that had happened in the past day gone. To her, it was perpetually Monday morning, and Freddie, Carly, Spencer, or Dr. Marshak – whoever had the bad luck to be in the room when she awoke – was compelled to explain the situation to her all over again.

The first thought in everyone's mind (though no one dared vocalize it) was: _brain damage_. But a team of the finest neurologists in the Pacific Northwest, when called in to consult, could find no evidence of any injury to the cerebral cortex or hippocampus. In fact, physically, Sam had now all but completely healed – which, in a piece of bitter irony, only exacerbated her friends' troubles, since it made it all the more difficult for her to believe them when they told her she had been brutally assaulted.

There was only one conclusion left to draw: the root of the trouble was not medical, but psychological. Sam was repressing something – an experience so dreadful that her subconscious mind would sooner purge her memory each night than allow it to surface in her waking life.

As for Sam herself, on this gloomy Saturday evening four words formed the entirety of her thoughts, indeed, the entirety of her being: _Don't go to sleep_. At the same time, she couldn't afford to eat her beloved meat – satiety might make her drowsy. So here she sat now in Dr. Marshak's office, pouring can after can of Jolt and Full Throttle down a burning throat into a wholly empty stomach, wincing with each gulp as it seared her stomach lining. Her hypercaffeinated state had heightened all her senses to an incredible degree. The tick of the wall clock became a punctuated thudding upon her eardrums; the fluorescent lights above seared into her retinas.

Her two closest friends in the world sat on either side of her, holding her hands. Carly and Freddie could feel Sam's pulse through her fingertips as it ran amok, and exchanged quick, frightened looks. At this rate, she would soon give herself a heart attack.

Behind them, Spencer paced the carpet restlessly. He was a different man now: his posture more bent, his eyes less lively. The spark he had always carried within him was, if not yet extinguished, nonetheless greatly dimmed. Gibby remained pressed into a corner, awkward and uncertain – wanting to be part of the group, wanting to help Sam however he could, but still feeling himself an outsider.

The heavy oak door swinging open startled them all. The elderly physician whom they had all come to know, and almost to regard as a friend, over the past few days entered with a clipboard and a thick-stuffed manila folder under his arm. He slid his arthritic frame awkwardly into the great oaken armchair behind the desk and pressed his fingertips together in a pyramid, a gesture that, they all knew by now, meant he had things to say but wasn't certain how best to say them.

It was Sam who finally broke the silence. "Tell it to me straight, Doc," she said in a jittery, jagged voice. "Whatever it is, I can take it, but I can't go on like I am now."

"I know," he replied softly. "And there's a chance you won't have to. But…"

"But what?"

"It's very risky. The procedure has only been tested on lab animals and in computer simulations up to now, and we can't be sure what the effects will be on the human brain."

"Procedure?" said Carly. "Are you talking about doing some kind of surgery on Sam?"

Dr. Marshak wasn't surprised or annoyed to hear the brunette girl chiming in. He had quickly realized how close she and Sam were, to the point that each of them feared for the other as much as for herself. "Yes, Miss Shay. That is to say, surgery is part of what I'm proposing."

"I don't understand," said Sam.

"A medical company in upstate New York has developed a biofeedback meter that directly stimulates the neurons of the cerebral cortex during sleep with a low electrical voltage in order to induce the production of theta-waves. When combined with hypnosis and the consumption of certain drugs, it should permit you to unlock your subconscious through 'lucid dreaming' – that is to say, a dream-state in which you're aware that you're asleep, and consequently able to manipulate the dream-environment fully. With luck, you'll be able to circumvent the mental blocks that you've unconsciously placed on your memories due to the trauma you suffered."

"So I can control my dreams? " Sam had visibly perked up. "That sounds – pretty cool, actually."

The physician smiled slightly. "Indeed. But, as I said, there are many risks. Neurosurgery is a very delicate matter under the best of circumstances, and we'll be entering uncharted waters."

Sam looked from Carly to Freddie. Neither of her friends spoke, but both gave her hands a gentle squeeze to show her that they would stand by her, no matter what.

It took her only a moment to make her decision. "Let's go for it, Doc."

He nodded. "Mr. Shay, as Miss Puckett's legal guardian, you would need to give your consent as well."

When no one had been able to locate Pam, Spencer, at Carly's urging, had applied to the courts to take over Sam's care. Now, he nodded solemnly. "If Sam thinks it's best, I'm willing to trust her judgment."

"Very good." The physician rose. "Sam, come with me, and we'll get you prepped."

Outside the office, the hospital corridor was deserted, save for a lone orderly mopping the floor. Carly hugged Sam tightly for a long moment. Gibby patted her on the shoulder. Freddie, trying desperately to mask his concern, only gave her a gentle punch on the arm and said, "Remember, Puckett, you have to get better soon. I don't have anybody to insult me and call me names, and it's driving me nuts!"

"No need to worry, Frednub. I'll be back on my feet and snarking at ya in no time."

It wasn't until the little group had turned the corner and disappeared that the orderly looked up from his work. A Cheshire cat grin slowly formed on his face. He gave a tuneless whistle, and murmured to the empty air: "Vaya con dios, Samantha. All sorts of unpleasant things can happen when you go under the knife…little ladybug."


	5. Maiden Voyage

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

_Sunday, January 29, 2012_

_10:30 P.M._

_I feel like I've got an octopus growing out of my head_, thought Sam. She was in no pain – local anesthetic and the consummate skill of the surgeons had seen to that – but there was, indeed, a great mass of wires sprouting from her skull, all of them leading back to a steel box that would have seemed completely inert were it not for an occasional soft beeping.

The room was dimly lit. From a hidden speaker, soft music drifted to her ears: the second movement of Mozart's _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_, appropriately enough. The smiling face of Dr. Marshak, a deeply comforting presence, watched her from a chair beside her bed.

"Okay, Sam. This will just be a trial run, to make sure there are no adverse aftereffects from the procedure. If you can find and break through your memory block the first time out, that'll be great, but I don't want you to press yourself too hard. Understand?"

"Gotcha, Doc."

"Then here we go." Dr. Marshak leaned over and flicked a switch on Sam's IV dispenser. Slowly, silently, sedatives began to flow into her veins.

"Sam, I want you to count backwards from 100."

"Whatever you say. 100…99…98…" _Why are my eyelids getting so heavy?_

By 75, though Sam wasn't aware of it, she was deep in a hypnotic state. Dr. Marshak moved swiftly to implant post-hypnotic suggestions into her malleable consciousness.

"Now, Sam, I want you to think of something that has special meaning to you, something that you would recognize as belonging to you no matter where in the world you saw it. Can you do that for me?"

Into her increasingly foggy brain, without any conscious effort on her part, there swam the image of the little remote control she used on iCarly to summon canned applause and laughter.

"Do you have something in mind?" He asked.

"Yes." It was curious; somehow someone who sounded exactly like her had spoken, but she didn't feel her own lips move. It was as if she were wholly detached from her body now, floating somewhere in an ethereal mist.

"Now, I want you to hold on to that. It will be your life preserver. No matter how deep you are in sleep, how far you go into the dream world, when you see that object, it will remind you that the world around you is _not real_. It will give you the power to _take control_. Do you understand?"

"…Yes." Already she could feel the siren song of sleep calling her away. The hospital, Dr. Marshak, the bizarre machine to which she was hooked up…they were the illusion, weren't they? _So hard to remember…_

A far-away voice. "Hold on to your life preserver, Sam. Take control. And when you have control, find the truth. Search inside yourself…" It diminished to a barely audible whisper…

_God,_ she hated too much pepper on her eggs. "Hey, Mom," she yelled at the tall, lanky blond woman currently bent over a saucepan on the stove, "how many times do I have to tell you, **go easy on the pepper!**"

"Oh, excuse me, little miss Queen of Everything, but if you're so unhappy maybe you should make your _own_ eggs!" As Pam looked up, Sam momentarily wondered how it was that her mother was wearing the ugly palm-tree emblazoned blouse she had thrown away three years ago.

Her dad entered, half his face covered with shaving cream. "Can the screaming, will ya? A man can't concentrate in this house for love nor money."

_Wait…Dad's back all of a sudden?_ She tried to concentrate on the features of the man whom she hadn't seen since she was twelve years old, but they were oddly blurry, slippery. Sometimes he had blue eyes, sometimes brown. Sometimes he had a great aquiline nose, sometimes a comical little stub.

"Sorry, sorry," Pam shot back. "I know it takes all five of your brain cells to shave yourself."

"I've had just about enough of being insulted in my own house, you lousy shrew…"

_Run,_ Sam immediately thought. So many times when she was little and the fighting began she had run away, hidden in a closet or under the back porch. But she was too big to hide there now. Where to go?

"I have to go to school," she piped up. _Now __**there's**__ a sentence I never thought would come out of my mouth._ And as swiftly as she had spoken, she was in Miss Briggs' classroom. But why was she still wearing pink pajamas? Shouldn't she have changed first?

_Oh, no. They're all staring at me._ Her face turned beet red before her classmates' baffled stares.

"Late _and_ improperly dressed, eh, Sam? A two-for-one special today!" Miss Briggs crowed. "Now hurry up and get out your math textbook – or did you forget that, too?"

"I…no. No, I have it here." She reached beneath her desk and groped about in her backpack.

Huh? Her fingers had landed on something that shouldn't be there. Something small, rectangular and plastic. She pulled it out and stared at it.

_Okay, I know I'm being even more scatter-brained than usual today, but how did I manage to bring my __**remote **__to school?_

_My remote…_

_This isn't real._

_I'm dreaming._

"I'm DREAMING!" she cried triumphantly.

"Samantha Puckett, I expect my students to maintain a certain level of decorum! Even_ you_ should know better than to…"

"Go away now." Sam raised her hand.

Miss Briggs disintegrated into a shower of sparks.

"All right! Now, all of you, get lost. I've got some digging to do." Sam gestured again, and a great whirlwind began to swirl around her desk. Her fellow students, their mouths open as if to cry out but making no sound, were swept up, spun around and around. The roof tore away, and the mighty wind carried them, one by one, into a black sky.

The four walls around her fell away as her desk faded into nothingness. She stood up. _Better put on something more appropriate._ The pajama pants morphed into jeans; the top into a penny tee that read "Bonus Mon-"

_**NO!**_ The whole universe screamed around her. Sam clutched her head and fell to her knees in agony. _Any shirt but that._ Quick as thought, it became a generic green blouse, and the screaming stopped.

Her breathing slowed, grew steady. She rose to her feet and looked about.

A momentary vertigo struck her as she realized that there was no earth beneath her feet. She was floating, floating in what seemed a bizarre parody of the night sky. The familiar stars were now long, multicolored streaks on a black canvas, as if God, in a hurry, had been forced to resort to finger-painting to complete His creation.

As she focused, two doors began to materialize, one before her, the other behind her. That at her back was an ordinary, if ornately carved, wooden door with a gold knob, the only oddity about it being that its frame was apparently set into empty space. Instinctively, she sensed that this was the path back to waking consciousness. But the one before her…

A vast marble arch enclosed two massive hemi-circular doors of solid iron, each with a ring set in it that doubled as door-knocker and door-handle. The doors were divided into compartments, each of which bore a sculpted scene in high relief. Most were utterly baffling to Sam, but a few awoke in her dim memories of Sunday School: Satan being cast out of Heaven by the Archangel Michael; Adam and Eve leaving Eden, weeping; Judas, falling and bursting apart, thirty pieces of silver strewn at his feet.

Now, to Sam's amazement, the whole cosmos began to fill up with doors – doors of every shape and size, in, above, behind the strange stars. She could scarcely begin to imagine where they all led. But no matter – she knew, with a certainty she could never hope to explain, that it was the portal in front of her that concealed the memories she was so afraid to face.

The iron doors were open only a crack. As Sam cautiously approached, her nostrils were assailed by the stench of sulfur emanating from the narrow gap, making her gag. Distant sounds reached her ears: wails of lamentation; screams of sheer agony; and a horrific, hellish barking, seeming to come from three dogs' throats at once. This last sound, she realized with a shudder, was drawing closer. She forced herself to approach nonetheless; laid her hand on the door handle…

A snout poked through the crack. Fangs gnashed, dripping foam. Sam cried out, dropped the handle with a thud, turned and fled blindly.

It took her a moment, in her panic, to realize that she was heading, not for the gateway that led back to the waking world, but to another, a nearby flimsy door covered with colorful posters. It was too late to turn back now, and, she reasoned, nothing could be worse than…_that_ place; so, with only a moment's hesitation, she forced this strange new door open, hurried in, and slammed it shut behind her.

The scene before her left her dumbstruck.

It was Ancient Egypt – or, rather, a vision of Egypt as cooked up by a brain whose only knowledge of that civilization came through cheesy Hollywood epics. She was on the banks of the Nile, in the height of the fierce African summer. Before her, beneath a purple canopy, two beautiful young women wearing very little indeed were slowly fanning, with huge palm branches, a bulky figure that lay on a couch, eating grapes popped into his mouth by a third woman who bent over him with a loving look in her eyes.

This was strange enough. But what _truly_ threw her for a loop was that the pampered figure in question was…

"GIBBY!"

At her perplexed cry, Orenthal Cornelius Gibson looked up from his grape-munching. His eyes widened. "Sam! What the heck are _you_ doing in Egypt? Um…I mean, BOW DOWN BEFORE HIS MAJESTY, GIBHOTEP! " Instantly, the trio of serving girls prostrated themselves.

As Sam recovered her composure, it dawned on her precisely what was going on. She couldn't suppress a chuckle. "We're not in Egypt, Gib, and you're no Pharaoh. It's just a dream you're having."

"A dream? No way. This is all completely real…right? Ladies, back me up here, will you?" The serving girls exchanged confused looks.

Sam doubled over in laughter. "I…oh, my God, this is priceless. Look, Gibmeister, I'm really sorry about crashing your little fantasy. I'll let you get back to it."

Leaving a sputtering "Gibhotep" behind her, Sam went back through the door and found herself once again in the strange starry void. Again she contemplated the iron portal. Soon she would have to pass through it, whether she liked it or not. But right now…no, her fear was too great. And Dr. Marshak had given her express orders not to over-strain herself.

Turning her back on the stench and the barking, she turned the gold knob on the opposite door.

/

_Monday, January 30, 2012_

_4:45 P.M._

Carly, Freddie, and Gibby were all out of breath; they had literally raced to the hospital after school let out to check on Sam. When they entered her room, they were greeted by a happy sight: as frail and alien as their friend looked with tubes and wires sticking out of her in every direction, she was, for the first time in weeks, smiling.

"How'd it go?" panted Freddie.

"Well, I haven't yet been able to get to…_those_ memories…"- her face momentarily clouded-"but when I woke up this morning, I remembered everything that happened yesterday." She was beaming again.

With whoops of delight, the three of them embraced her in turn, taking care not to disturb any of the machinery.

"Hey, by the way," remarked Gibby when he had let her go, "I don't want to make a big deal out of this, but, uh – you were kinda in my dreams last night."

"Oh, was I – Gibhotep?"

Carly and Freddie couldn't help but wonder why it was that Sam had that sneaky grin on her face – or, for that matter, why the always unflappable Gibby Gibson suddenly looked like he was about to faint.


	6. Out, Out, Brief Candle

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

_Monday, January 30, 2012_

_11:15 P.M._

Sam's second excursion into the dream-world began far more smoothly than her first. It took her only a moment to realize that the purple fat-cakes factory on the Moon within which she found herself was an illusion (albeit a delicious one), and then she was back in the strange cosmos of doors, face-to-face once more with the iron gates to Hell.

The stench of sulfur was even stronger than before, and the door-handle proved painfully hot to the touch. For a moment she contemplated fleeing into another of the many portals and spying on others' dreams. It would be so much fun, and so much easier than facing her own…but no. Her mental block had to be dealt with, once and for all.

As she seized the handle once again, willing herself to ignore the pain, a slight buzzing began to sound in the void around her. _Isn't the dream-world supposed to be __**quiet?**_ She wondered.

/

What was only a moderate annoyance to the dreaming Sam was, in the real world, currently shattering the unfortunate Dr. Marshak's eardrums: the hospital fire alarm.

Even though the neurological ward of Seattle Mercy was nearly empty at this time of night, heavy feet still pounded back and forth in the corridor outside; frantic instructions for evacuation were shouted from person to person.

Marshak wrung his hands, unsure what to do. Getting Sam out without unhooking the machines would be a slow and incredibly cumbersome process; but to unhook the machines now, when she was in the middle of REM sleep, might have catastrophic consequences. He was still debating inwardly, and trying to shut the squeal of the alarm out of his jumbled thoughts, when a short but heavily muscled orderly whom Marshak didn't recognize burst into the room.

"I'll wheel the patient out, Doctor. You can go ahead and evacuate."

Marshak was about to yield, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered that something wasn't right. "Look, I appreciate the offer, Mr. –"

"Angel. Mike Angel."

"-Mr. Angel, but this is an experimental piece of technology. I really should supervise things myself."

"Look, Doctor, there isn't time for this! You get going, and I'll take care of Sam."

Marshak froze.

"How did you know she goes by Sam?"

The man who had called himself Angel bristled in annoyance. "I saw it on her chart, of course."

"That says 'Samantha'."

"So? I made a lucky guess at her nickname. What's it to you?" There was an unmistakable snarl in the voice now.

Undaunted, Marshak approached the orderly and studied his face closely. "I don't believe I've seen you around here. How long have you been working here? What department are you in?" Suddenly, a flash of recognition: "Weren't you outside my office the other day?"

The orderly sighed heavily. "I suppose I should have known this wouldn't be easy. Doc, didn't you ever hear that old saw about curiosity and cats?" And in a lightning-swift motion, his fist shot out, striking Marshak in the solar plexus.

The physician doubled over in pain, but his assailant was far from done. He twisted his fist, still embedded in Marshak's flesh, clockwise a full turn, sending searing pain through the old man's stomach. Marshak retched. With his free arm, the orderly elbowed Marshak in the broad of his back, thrusting his knee upward at the same time, catching the physician's chin in a crushing vise. Marshak rolled to the floor, barely conscious, his eyes swimming.

Ignoring Marshak's gasps of pain behind him, the orderly looked down at Sam's sleeping figure. This would be a new experience for him, on two fronts; he had never killed a woman before, and he had never had to kill under such constrictive circumstances. There would be no chance to rework that lovely but imperfect face into something worthy of his artistic genius. It was a shame, really. Still, he had to prioritize, and the need to shut her up quickly trumped all other considerations.

He lifted a pillow and pressed it over Sam's face. _How disappointing. She's not even struggling_. From the corner of his eye, he watched the heart monitor as its beeps began to slow.

/

Sam summoned up all her strength and pulled open the great iron door. It swung open, slowly, with a jarring creak.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold.

She stood within a cavern that reached back seemingly into infinity. Beneath her was a dark pit, from which the screams she had heard before were emerging, though she could see nothing within it. A thin bridge of stone led over this pit, stretching for hundreds of feet out to a ball of dazzling light that floated above the abyss.

She took a step-

An immense, three-headed black dog materialized before her. Its snapping, foaming jaws struck straight for her neck. She leapt backward; the dog lunged to follow her, but was jerked back at the last moment by a mighty chain connected to a collar around its central neck.

Once out of range, she forced herself to calm down. _Don't be a coward, Puckett. It may be scary, but it isn't real. It's just your own mind, trying to keep you away from your painful memories. You can overcome it. You're the master here._

She stepped forward once again, just within range of the beast's fangs, and, as it struck again, cried out:

"Hold it right there, mutt!"

The creature froze. Emboldened, she struck its central head with an uppercut. Instantly all the fight went out of it, and it fled, whimpering in triplicate, into the dark, leaving the bridge clear.

Sam punched the air in triumph. _Now, let's see just what it is that my wussy brain thinks is too much for me to handle…_

_Wait. Something's wrong._

She looked back through the open portal to the other door, the one leading back to the waking world. It was wavering, becoming transparent, intangible.

"No!" she cried, and sprinted toward it, forgetting for the moment all about salvaging her memories.

_Gotta make it – gotta get through…_

Just as she stretched out her arm to seize the knob, the door vanished into nothingness. She dived for it, and found herself tumbling head over heels through empty space.

When at last she righted herself, the realization of what had happened struck her, and she wailed in despair.

Every other door remained. She could, she supposed, enter the dreams of any other person she chose.

But she could not wake up.

/

Something hard and metallic smashed into the back of the killer's head, and he went sprawling, the pillow falling to the floor. He reached around and felt in his hair, then withdrew his fingers. Blood.

He looked up. A lanky black man with steel spectacles was standing over him, holding a folding chair like a club.

"Why, you're the detective who's been following my work! Mister…Okonedo, is it? Always such a pleasure to meet a fan."

The detective said, quietly, calmly:

"What a brave man you are, assaulting unconscious girls and old men. Would you care for a _real_ fight for a change?"

"Mmm…no thanks. Not my style." With a smirk, he whipped a throwing knife from his breast pocket.

Okonedo drew his gun, but wasn't quite fast enough. With an expert hand, the killer sent the blade spinning end over end. It embedded itself in the detective's thigh, making him cry out in agony as his leg buckled. Still, even as he fell he managed a shot. The bullet grazed the killer's rib and embedded itself in the wall, but this was less of a concern to him than the commotion that the noise of the gunshot raised outside. Apparently it was audible even over the fire alarm; for the first time, footsteps and shouting approached the hospital room, rather than receding.

He turned to Sam and whispered in her ear: "Guess we'll have to finish this another time, ladybug." She did not stir as he fled from the room, leaping over Okonedo's and Marshak's prostrate forms.

The detective struggled to his feet, gritted his teeth, and pulled the knife from his thigh. Tearing up one of the bedsheets, he improvised a tourniquet. Once the bleeding had been stanched, he attended to Dr. Marshak. Much to his relief, the elderly physician was still breathing.

Together, the two men approached Sam's bedside. Marshak, leaning on Okonedo to steady himself, bent to study the various readouts. As his eyes fell upon the EEG monitor, his face grew deathly white.

"What is it?" the detective asked.

"It's too late," Dr. Marshak whispered. "She's brain-dead."


	7. Revelations, Part I

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

The phone's incessant ringing interrupted Carly's already troubled sleep. She pulled the pillow over her ears, hoping against hope that Spencer would answer it, but he had been drinking heavily the previous evening (a new habit, and one that worried her considerably) and wasn't likely to be roused. At last, she gave a sight of defeat and swung out of bed, glancing at the clock with blurry eyes. _Ten minutes after midnight. Great_.

"H'llo?"

It took her a moment to recognize the soft, reedy voice as belonging to the detective who had been harassing Sam and Freddie, and another moment to make out just what he was saying…

Thirty seconds later, her ear-shattering cry of "SPENCER!" brought her brother running at last.

/

_2:30 A.M._

In Sam's hospital room, Freddie held a sobbing Carly and tried to resist the urge to smash his fist against the wall – or Okonedo's head.

"All this time," he hissed. "All this time you've been stalking Sam and me, treating us like criminals, giving us no peace at all – and the one time that we actually _need_ you to be here, you show up _too goddamn late!_"

"That's not fair, Freddie," Dr. Marshak put in. "As it stands, Sam is still breathing, and her heart is still beating. If Detective Okonedo hadn't intervened, she'd be in the morgue right now – and so would I, most likely."

Freddie gave the physician, whose arm was in a sling, a vicious look. "So, instead of a corpse, she's a vegetable. God, that's so much better!"

"Freddie, stop it," said Spencer in a hoarse voice, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I know you're upset. We all are. But this isn't helping things."

The fight went out of Freddie, and his shoulders slumped. "So what happens now?" he whispered.

"That's up to Spencer," Dr. Marshak answered. He looked at the elder Shay. "Sam has no living will, so only you can decide whether or not to remove her from artificial life support."

Spencer suddenly looked many years older. For the first time, Freddie noticed tufts of gray in his hair. Slowly he asked, "What are her chances of recovery? Tell me straight, Doc."

Marshak sighed. "Very slim, I'm afraid. There's no measurable brain activity. Truthfully, I would recommend that you go ahead and disconnect-"

"NO!" Carly screamed. "You can't just let her die!"

"I don't like this any more than you do, Carly," the physician rejoined, "but we have to be reasonable. What kind of quality of life do you think Sam's going to have, being fed through a tube for the rest of her life?"

Carly's sobs choked off her words, and she buried her face in Freddie's chest. He rocked her gently back and forth, but his eyes were fixed on Spencer. The elder Shay nodded slightly – though Freddie had said nothing, Spencer understood perfectly what the younger man was trying to convey.

He turned to Marshak. "No, doctor. Not yet. Sam's a fighter – if anyone can find a way to recover from this, she can. I'm not giving up hope. The machines **stay on**."

"There is the matter of cost," the physician said uncomfortably. "Can you afford to-"

"I'll sell everything I own if need be," said Spencer. Carly, with a cry of joy, leapt from Freddie's arms and hugged her brother.

Freddie rose and crossed the room to where Okonedo stood silent, watching. He jabbed in his finger in the slender man's chest. "And what about you? Are you finally convinced now that Sam isn't a killer?"

"I never thought she was," the detective murmured.

"_What?_ Then why all the badgering?"

"Because Sam Puckett was – is – the best opportunity I've ever had to catch the most loathsome son of a bitch on the face of the Earth." To hear Okonedo utter this impassioned profanity in his calm, virtually toneless voice was deeply unnerving to Freddie.

"You're familiar with this man, then?" Marshak asked. "This Mike Angel?"

"That's not his name," Okonedo answered quietly. "He goes by a different alias in every city he visits. In Portland, it was Leo Vincent; in Sacramento, Peter P. Rubin; in Los Angeles, Frank Goyer."

"Wait a minute," Freddie said slowly. "Those names…Michelangelo. Leonardo da Vinci…"

Okonedo nodded. "Peter Paul Rubens. Francisco Goya. You see, this…_gentleman_ fancies himself a brilliant artist. But rather than canvas or marble, he uses the human body as his medium. He dismembers his victims, then – reshapes their faces." Freddie, Carly, Spencer, and Marshak all shuddered. "He has a very specific M.O. – only targeting elderly men, ones who live alone in poverty. Perhaps he figures they're the least likely to be missed – that's my theory, anyway."

Freddie eyed the seemingly impassive detective curiously. "Wait a minute. This guy sounds like a job for the FBI. What's an officer with the Seattle PD doing tracking him all along the West Coast?"

For the first time, Okonedo's attitude changed. His brow furrowed; his teeth gritted, letting a low growl slip out between them; his left hand clenched into a fist, then swiftly unclenched when he realized everyone in the room was now staring at him. "…Suffice it to say that I have a…_personal_ interest in catching this man. He was responsible for the death of…someone very dear to me."

This was a surprise. For the first time, Freddie felt himself thawing a bit toward Okonedo. If he had failed to protect Sam, clearly it wasn't from any lack of trying.

"Look," he said to the detective. "Spencer meant what he said. Sam's tough as nails. She'll find her way back to us, and when she does, she'll be able to tell you what you need to know. And then you can put the bastard behind bars."

"I hope so, Mr. Benson," Okonedo replied, looking down at Sam's motionless form. "I sincerely hope so."

/

A chill December wind ruffled Freddie's overcoat and nearly blew his fur cap from his head. _Can't they get this stupid ceremony __**over **__with already?_

He turned in his seat of honor and looked out over the bay. Ripples scattered through the icy waters; a little tugboat hauled a great cargo ship toward the harbor.

The King of Sweden ascended the dais at last, pulling Freddie's attention away from the sea. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," said the monarch in heavily accented English to the huge throng of dignitaries and journalists standing on the pier. "On behalf of the Nobel Committee, it is my honor to present this year's Nobel Prize in Physics to Professor Fredward Benson, of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, America."

Freddie stood and gave a curt nod to acknowledge the applause and cheers.

"As all of you are no doubt aware, Professor Benson is the first individual to achieve a sustained fusion reaction at room temperature under controlled conditions. Thanks to his efforts, the world now has an affordable and safe source of energy that will render fossil fuels obsolete."

Thunderous cries of "Hooray!" arose from the crowd. Despite himself, Freddie blushed.

"And yet, this must be something of a hollow victory for Professor Benson. After all, despite all his brainpower and determination, he failed to save the woman he loved from a horrible death."

Absolute silence fell, save for Freddie's anguished cry of "What?"

The king, who had somehow grown several inches and whose eyes now flamed red, turned to him. "Do you deny it, Professor?"

"It – it wasn't my fault! If I had been there, I would have stopped him! I swear it!"

In the back of the crowd, someone laughed derisively. A second person followed suit. In a moment, the entire throng was hooting and cackling at Freddie.

"What garbage," snorted the now eight-foot-tall man. He advanced on Freddie, who backed away slowly toward the safety railing separating him from the hundred-foot drop to the bay.

"Stop it! Stop it, please! I would have saved her!" The railing behind his back, once solid steel, was now as yielding as wet spaghetti. He struggled to maintain his balance.

"If you miss her so much, perhaps you ought to join her." The man-monster seized Freddie by the collar, lifted him and held him out over the abyss.

"No, don't…please…"

A small fist suddenly emerged from the monster's chest. His red eyes looked down in utter bafflement; then he vanished into smoke. As Freddie began to fall, strong arms seized him and drew him back onto solid ground. He looked into the face of his rescuer.

"SAM?"

"Good to see ya, nub." As the crowd began to boo raucously, the blonde girl turned, swept her hand in a wide arc, and blew them away as easily as if they had been chaff on the wind.

"But…you just killed the King of Sweden! And all those other people!" Freddie stammered.

Sam shook her head impatiently. "He's not real, Freddie. You're dreaming."

"Dreaming? That can't possibly be…" No. It made sense now. He was no Nobel Laureate – he was a seventeen-year-old boy. A boy who had just lost his true love, and-

"Wait. You're _brain-dead._ How can you be here?"

"It takes more than some schmuck with a pillow to finish _me_ off, Benson." Her face clouded. "But I'm trapped in this dream-world – I don't know how to wake up."

"Don't worry, Sam. We'll – **I'll** find a way to get you out. Whatever it takes."

A single tear appeared at the corner of her eye. Then, without warning, she practically leapt upon him and seized him in a tight bear hug.

As they held one another close, Freddie felt the warmth of morning sunbeams on his face, and the world about them began to waver and blur. "Crud!" Sam cried. "You're about to wake up. We haven't got much time. Listen: tell Carly I'm sorry about Mr. Cuddles. And tell that detective to look for the ring. Got that? _Look for the ring_."

Freddie didn't understand, but he nodded.

"And Frednub? I love-"

She vanished, and Freddie's eyes flickered open.

/

Carly had argued passionately that it was wrong to go to the Groovy Smoothie at a time like this, but Freddie insisted they go. There was nothing they could do for Sam right now, and spending every free hour by her bedside was taking a heavy physical and emotional toll on both of them. Once they arrived, Freddie was glad he'd insisted; Carly's eyes brightened a bit, and her speech became a little more animated. Clearly the familiar surroundings were comforting to her.

T-Bo approached their table, his usual broad grin noticeably absent. "I heard about Sam," he said. "Get whatever you want, kids. On the house."

"Thanks, Bo. Two mint chocolate chip smoothies," said Freddie. Once the malt-shop owner was gone, he took hold of Carly's hand, unsure whether she would believe what he was about to tell her. "Carly…last night…I had a visit from Sam. In my dreams."

Carly gave him a sad smile. "I understand, Freddie. We're all thinking about her. It's normal to imagine something like that."

"But it wasn't my imagination," he insisted. "Remember when she made that crack about 'Gibhotep' and scared the living daylights out of Gibby?"

Carly nodded doubtfully.

"I think that, somehow, that machine gave her the power to enter other people's dreams, as well as her own. Now she's using that power to contact us. She wants us to help track down the killer."

Seeing the vehemence in his eyes, Carly drew back. "Oh, God, Freddie, please don't crack up on me. Not now. I'm depending on you to keep _me _sane."

He sighed._ I knew this would happen. Can't blame her – __**I'm**__ not entirely sure I believe that what I saw was real…_

_Wait a minute._ "Carly. She said to tell you 'I'm sorry about Mr. Cuddles.' Do you have any idea what she meant?"

Carly's jaw dropped. "It _can't_ be…"

"What? What is it?"

"Mr. Cuddles was a stuffed animal – my _favorite_ stuffed animal. A dromedary camel. Dad gave him to me before one of his deployments, when I was only three. Not long after I met Sam, I let her borrow him, and she accidentally tore one of his legs off. I cried and cried; she tried to apologize, but I wouldn't listen. When we finally made up, I was so embarrassed about it that I made her promise never to tell another living soul."

They stared at one another, both struck momentarily silent by sheer amazement.

"Freddie…" said Carly at last. "She really did contact you. It's impossible, but…she did."

"You realize what this means," Freddie replied. "We have to make sure no one disconnects her life support before we find a way to get her consciousness back into her body."

"Don't worry. Spencer won't let Dr. Marshak do anything."

Freddie couldn't bear to pain Carly by telling her the truth – that it wasn't Marshak who concerned him. For the serial killer whom they were facing clearly wasn't a man to take any chances of being caught – and he surely knew that so long as Sam still breathed, she might awake and incriminate him. And that, in turn, could mean only one thing.

It was only a matter of time before he returned to silence her once and for all.


	8. Revelations, Part II

**A/N: Ha! And here **_**you**_** thought this story was dead as a doornail! (To tell you the truth, **_**I**_** thought this story was dead as a doornail – but, since **_**iCarly**_** itself is going to be ending before too long, it seemed a shame to leave things hanging.)**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

Sam Puckett had always thought of herself as the toughest kid on the block, but now, as she faced the great and imposing iron doors and imagined the horrors that lurked behind them, she didn't feel quite so tough after all.

Still, what choice did she have? Until Freddie and Carly came up with some miraculous cure for her condition, she was trapped in this strange world of dreams; and if she could not fly from her fears, the only reasonable course of action was to face them head-on.

She seized hold of the door-handle. Again the searing hot metal burned her palm; again the single image blazed into her mind that she had shared with Freddie when she walked into his dream – a ring, lying in a snowdrift. A college ring, she had thought at first, but it was not quite like any she had ever seen before; twin golden lions, standing on their hind legs, pawed at a silver human-shaped figure bound to a stake, while the whole scene was surrounded by a motto in letters of red gold: QUOD AMO, ID OCCIDO. Foreign languages had never been a strong point of Sam's, except for Italian, but Freddie might know how to translate the phrase. _If only I had had a chance to tell him more before he woke up!_ she thought with a twinge of regret.

What the ring meant, or who it belonged to, she had no idea. But something told her that it was important – vitally important. And to understand its true significance, she would need answers – answers that could only be found behind these doors.

With all her might, she dug in her heels and pulled. The hinges resisted, groaned, squeaked and squealed; the heat grew, scorching her clothes, searing her flesh. _This isn't real_, she told herself over and over again. _You're not in any danger. All the resistance you face is coming from your own subconscious mind._ And yet, though intellectually she knew this to be true, the sensation of pain and horror didn't diminish one bit.

At last the door opened, and she stepped over the threshold.

It was as if she stood in the eye of some demonic tornado. All around her black, vaguely formed wisps of spirit spun, howling in agony, lashing out at one another with long tendrils. Crimson lightning crackled across her field of vision, reducing the spirits to nothingness, then pausing to allow them to reform. Blasts of hot air soared up from the bare rock beneath Sam's feet and spun close about her, taking her breath away. And over all the noise rose the barking of an immense dog, the size of a city block, with a pitch-black coat – and three heads, all of them foaming at the mouth and baring their fangs.

Sam remembered her Greek mythology. _Cerberus. The guardian of the mouth of Hell. No one but Hercules ever took him down in a fight. And I may be strong, but I ain't no Hercules, God knows._

An adamantine chain connected to a collar around the central neck held the great beast in place. Behind its forequarters Sam could see, dimly, a quiet night scene: Ebenezer Dixon's shack, blanketed by snow, with an inexplicable light shining in the window.

The answers she sought were there, no question about it. But what would it cost her to face them? Maybe there was a good reason her mind had locked away these memories. Maybe they were so brutal, so horrific, that facing them would push her over the edge into madness. It would be so easy, even now, to turn and run.

_But I'm a Puckett. I don't run. I fight._

Ignoring his cacophonous roar, his sulphurous breath, his bared claws, Sam advanced implacably toward the beast. When his central head was within arm's reach, she drew back her hand, slapped him as forcefully as she could, and yelled, "Can it, mutt! You're givin' me a headache!"

The roar sunk to an ashamed whimper. Then, to Sam's amazement, the monster itself began to shrink; its triple heads merged into one, its fangs receded, its body withered. At last it stood transformed into a tiny puppy that scampered away, yipping in bewilderment.

_Now that's more like it._

Her path now clear, Sam entered the frosty, debris-strewn yard and approached the shack.

A soft, supremely self-confident voice floated to her through the window glass: "…some people think that old age destroys beauty. Quite the contrary. All those wrinkles and white hairs add a patina of authority that actually _increases_ the appeal of the human form – when viewed in the right perspective, of course."

An answer, almost inaudible: "Let…let me die…"

"Oh, no. No no no. I'm not even _close_ to being finished, you know. Killing you now would be akin to setting a canvas afire in mid-brushstroke."

"Why are you…doing this? Why…why me?"

"Because you won't be missed, old man. You live on the fringes of society, all alone, hated and despised. No one will notice your disappearance, or, if they do, they won't care. But as a corpse – oh, as a corpse, you'll be famous the world over. No one will ever know that you were once Ebenezer Dixon, the belligerent hermit living in the midst of his own filth; you'll be known as the finest work yet of the most gifted sculptor humanity has ever produced."

"You're…mad…"

"I prefer 'eccentric', actually. Less of a pejorative tinge."

Sam pressed her nose against the glass. The old hermit hung upside from the ceiling, naked, bound. A man she had never seen before, wearing a butcher's apron and wielding a gargantuan knife, was calmly drawing dotted lines with black marker all over the old man's shrunken, white-haired chest. He stepped back, examined his handiwork, gave a satisfied nod – then began to cut.

Sam felt the heavy sharpness of a rock in her hand. Where it had come from she had no idea, but she knew what to do with it now. As the mad artist's blade drew the first drops of blood from the helpless hermit's flesh, Sam reared back and hurled the rock with all her might through the window glass, striking the killer square in the temple. He reeled and stumbled against Dixon's makeshift stove, giving Sam time to circle around and barge in through the shack's only door.

"Don't worry, Mr. Dixon," she said as her panicking fingers pulled at the knots holding him in place. "I'll get you down."

"You…you're that girl who's always playing pranks on me…"

"Yeah. I don't like you much, but that doesn't mean I want to see you get killed-UNGH!"

The mad artist, injured but not incapacitated by Sam's surprise attack, had lifted a hurricane lamp from the kitchen table; now he swung it in a great arc, catching the unprepared girl across the back of the head. She fell against Dixon, grabbing onto the hapless man's body to regain her balance, smearing his blood on her hands and arms; but her weight was too much for the rope holding him up, which snapped, sending both him and her to the floor.

The killer bent down and pulled Sam up by the collar. "I don't like to be interrupted," he said, in an eerily calm voice. "This is an art form, you know. Would you interrupt Michelangelo when he was just about to finish carving his _David_?"

Sam was terrified, but had no intention of showing it. "Oh, cut the crap already. You're no artist – just a sicko."

"Jealous, are we? Well, I don't blame you, really. It must hurt to know that you haven't been blessed with talent like mine." He took a handful of her hair in his fingers and examined each golden strand. "I'm not saying I mind an audience, ladybug. But you could at least have the good grace to let me finish up first. That's all."

"How can you make an old man suffer like that?"

"Does clay suffer when the sculptor's fingers shape it? And if it does, what difference would it make? The end product is so far superior to the original that the raw matter from which it comes will be forgotten. Mr. Dixon here should be honored that I selected him. And you, my dear, by virtue of your intemperate decision to blunder in here, will be the next work in my personal gallery! I _do_ hope you don't mind."

She stared straight into his eyes and said, with the slowest and clearest enunciation she could muster: "Go. To. HELL."

He shook his head sadly. "Well, that's very ungrateful of you. Yes indeed, little ladybug, _very_ ungrateful. Turning down the chance to work with an artistic genius, I mean."

Sam squirmed fiercely and tried to pull his hands from her throat; her fingers fastened onto a strange ring he wore on his right hand. She tugged mightily, and the ring came loose into her palm, but his grip on her remained as strong as a vise.

"Oh, your lovely face. I can shape it so nicely, if you'll just stay still. Shave off a little here, dig a few furrows there…"

"_I'll_ dig you some damn furrows!" She raked her fingernails across his face, drawing blood, and at last he let go. She shoved him away, still clutching the ring.

Wiping his face, he sneered: "Going to _run_, are you? How far do you think those short legs of yours will get you?"

Sam realized, with horror, that he was between her and the door. Trying to evade him, she dodged to the left, then the right, but he matched her step for step.

"There's nowhere you can go. Don't you see that?"

They continued their impromptu game of tag, he unable to catch her, she unable to get past him to the door. He was growing increasingly frustrated. "Listen to me. There's _nowhere you can go_."

Then he caught sight of the ring in her hand, and all his composure was lost. The blood vessels on his forehead stood out, and his face contorted into a horrid mask. Sam thought she had never seen such unbridled rage.

"Give that back to me now, damn you! Stop running away from me! Stop running, you stupid little _bitch!_ I'll tear your fucking_ throat_ out!"

Suddenly, the madman's leg was kicked out from under him, and he fell, clearing a path for Sam. She looked down in shock. It was old man Dixon, who had managed to free his feet, but was too badly injured to rise. "Run, girl!" he croaked.

"But I can't just leave-"

"No sense in _both_ of us dyin' today."

And, before she knew what she was doing, Sam was off, out the door, back through the moonlit yard, willing her mind to shut out the agonizing screams behind her. The ring, forgotten in her panic, fell from her fingers, into the snow…

And then she was standing once more at the threshold of the terrible iron gates.

_So __**that's**__ what happened that night. I was reliving it in my sleep when I attacked poor Mrs. Benson._

It was at that moment that Sam finally understood why she had repressed the memory – not out of shock at the brutality of the old man's death, but out of guilt.

She had treated him so cruelly for so long, yet he sacrificed himself to allow her to escape. And she had left him there, to suffer horribly, just so she could save her own skin.

_Looks like Pucketts __**do**__ run after all._

_Oh, God, what kind of a monster __**am**__ I?_

Slowly, like a prisoner being marched to the scaffold, she walked back into the strange door-filled dreamscape, then fell to her knees in the silence and began to sob.


	9. Found and Lost

**A/N: I **_**will**_** finish this story, come hell or high water. (Frankly, fanfiction is the only thing at this point in my life that's keeping me sane.)**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

On hands and knees, wearing latex gloves, Detective Okonedo scrabbled through the thick snow, now gray with several days' accumulation of soot and dirt. As he dug, his heavy breaths curled and congealed in the chilly air. Freddie stood by, keeping his numb hands securely in his jacket pockets.

"You know, son, this is a lot of work I'm putting in just to satisfy your little hunch."

"It's more than a hunch," Freddie snapped. "Sam _told_ me what to look for. And if anyone should know, it's her."

"Uh-huh. I'm going to level with you, Mr. Benson, I'm not altogether persuaded by this 'dream-walking' yarn you've spun for me. It's a little hard to believe – even you have to admit that."

"And yet you're still out here in the snow, all alone."

The detective chuckled. "Call me a glutton for punishment. Anyway, I couldn't afford to call in any local help – they'd just laugh themselves sick, knowing I'm chasing after a dream-vision."

"Let me help," Freddie said, more gently. "Four hands are better than two."

"And risk having you contaminate any evidence we come across? I don't think so. This is _my_ hunt, Mr. Benson, and I'm not going to take any chances."

"You're kind of obsessed with this guy, aren't you?"

Okonedo broke off his digging for a moment and looked over his shoulder at Freddie. "Perhaps I am. But I don't make any apologies for it. I know better than anyone else on Earth what horrors this self-styled 'artist' is capable of. He's already cut a swath of death across half the country. No more**. It ends here.**"

The ferocious tone of the last three words unnerved Freddie, a fact that didn't escape Okonedo's notice. "Not to worry, Mr. Benson. I'll do my best to keep my Captain Ahab tendencies in check for the time being."

The detective went back to digging. Freddie shifted his weight from one foot to the other in impatience. Doubts began to seep into his mind. _What if we're looking in the wrong place? What if he's right, and this is just a wild goose chase? While I'm here twiddling my thumbs, that maniac might make another attempt on Sam's life…_

"Ah ha!" cried Okonedo.

"What? What is it?" Freddie's heart soared.

"I don't know if it's_ the_ ring, but it's certainly _a_ ring." Carefully he brushed away the fine powder of snow and frost that had collected on the little band of gold. When the ring was fully exposed, he slid it into a clear plastic bag.

Freddie leaned over his shoulder. "Is that an inscription? I can't see clearly…"

The detective adjusted his spectacles. "Yes. 'Quod amo, id occido'." He pronounced the unfamiliar words haltingly. "I think it's Latin. Mr. Benson, I don't suppose you know how to translate-"

"I kill that which I love."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what it means – 'I kill that which I love'." There was a chill in Freddie's bones now that went far beyond the effects of the January weather.

"A sick motto for a sick man," said the detective, turning the ring slowly within the plastic bag and watching as it caught the weak winter sunlight. "We should be able to recover some trace evidence from it – DNA, skin cells if we're lucky." He looked at Freddie intently. "I don't suppose Miss Puckett left you any more dream clues?"

Freddie shook his head. "I wish. Maybe tonight."

"Let's hope so."

"Does this mean you're finally convinced I'm telling the truth?"

Okonedo scratched his chin. "Not fully, no. I am by nature a hardened skeptic, Mr. Benson. But I'll concede this much: you've given me the best break in the case so far. And I'll take any break I can get, no matter the source."

They returned to the detective's grey Pontiac sedan. As Freddie buckled himself into the passenger seat, he felt the inside of his coat to make sure the precious book was still there.

_A Beginner's Guide to Lucid Dreaming._

_This time, Sam, __**I'm**__ going to find __**you.**__ And I'll get you out. Whatever it takes. _

/

The man who went by many names dusted the rather bland painting of a yacht sailing into a harbor that hung in the waiting room outside the ICU. Outwardly he was perfectly calm and collected, but deep within, turmoil raged.

_Don't those wretched cops ever __**sleep?**__ Hell, can't they just slip off for a cup of coffee or a bathroom break? Are they androids, or what?_

Sixty seconds. That was all he needed to finish the job on Sam Puckett. But her room was guarded every moment of every day by an endless rotation of uniformed policemen, all grim, unspeaking, determined. There might as well be a brick wall between him and her.

As often when he grew upset, he grasped the pinky finger of his right hand to twist his ring back and forth. But as he touched the bare flesh, he remembered that the girl had stolen it, and silently swore. Without it he felt naked.

It had been a college graduation present from his father. Then, of course, it had borne a very different inscription: QUI AMAT NUMQUAM SOLUS EST. 'He who loves is never alone.'

_What garbage,_ he thought. _We are __**all**__ alone, whether we love, or hate, or have hearts too cold for either._ After he had sculpted his first masterpiece – his parents - he had ensconced himself in the quiet of his garage workshop, painstakingly rubbed away each of the letters, and replaced them with his own, far more fitting inscription.

For he _did_ love those whom he killed. Never had he felt more affection for his mother and father than when he heard their last anguished screams. No longer were they the foolish Philistines who had held back his genius; now they were his masterpieces, his beautiful, beautiful masterpieces. He had almost wept over the sheer perfection once he made the final incision and set down the blade.

Every time since then that he had taken a life, that ring had been on his finger, reminding him of his mission. It was his greatest treasure, the one thing he kept with him as he drifted from city to city, always one step ahead of the pursuing police. And now it was gone, lost somewhere in the grimy snow.

He would make Sam Puckett pay. If only he could find an opening, some chink in the armor…

Of course. It was so simple that he couldn't believe it had never occurred to him before.

_If you can't attack the body, attack the mind._

Looking about to make sure he was unobserved, he slipped into a nearby supply closet, drew the door shut, and locked it, leaving himself in total darkness. He leaned his head back against a mop head – the closest thing to a pillow he had at hand – and shut his eyes tightly, embracing the silence.

/

Sam floated in the void. There were fewer doors now, with nearly all of Seattle awake, and the sleepers in the night-covered parts of the world were so far off that it was scarcely worth the effort to try to reach them. Besides, Sam had no idea how she could make herself understood in the dreams of someone from Beijing or Kuala Lumpur, nor what they could possibly do to help her.

To keep herself from going mad with loneliness, she began to conjure. With a simple wave of her hand, a castle appeared before her, with great brick turrets and pennants flying high atop them, a moat and a drawbridge. She studied it a moment, then flicked her hand again, reducing it to ashes.

Her next creation was a Gothic mansion, with all the trappings: thunder and lightning outside, a twisting central staircase and secret attic rooms. This was more to her liking, she decided. She entered the parlor.

On the far wall, a fireplace crackled with a warm, inviting flame. Sam drew up an armchair, tilted her head back, and sighed in contentment.

Behind her, the door slammed shut. She started.

_I didn't do that._

Quickly she rose and ran back across the room. The entrance was suddenly, inexplicably, covered with a lattice of iron bars. Sam shook them; they didn't budge.

Her heart began to pound.

_Don't panic, Puckett. Mama can handle this. You're in total control here, remember?_

She waved her hand, mentally willing the bars to turn to dust.

They didn't obey.

She tried again. Still nothing. Her heart had become a jackhammer within her chest.

_The windows, Puckett!_

Sam spun and made from the French windows – but froze in mid-stride.

An immense eye, its pupil alone larger than Sam herself, was peering into the room.

And then came the voice, booming, shaking the house to its very foundations – the voice Sam had prayed fervently she would never hear again so long as she lived:

"Gotcha, ladybug."


End file.
